Genevieve paused halfway up the steps, gazing at the dark-brown facade of the house with appreciation. It was a deceivingly simple exterior, its clean lines belying the lavishness of the interior. Reginald and his now-departed wife had built the house in the late 1860s, when wealthy families were beginning the march of mansions up Fifth Avenue, each more elaborate than the last. While many of the houses built then had already been torn down as society moved further north toward Central Park, the Cotswolds had stayed on. Genevieve had spent many happy hours here as a child, playing hide-and-seek in the vast house with her brothers. The Cotswolds, having no children of their own, had been surprisingly indulgent of the Stewart children’s antics.
A pang went through her at the memory. Sally Cotswold had died over a decade prior, predeceasing her husband, and as far as Genevieve knew, the pair had no other family. She wondered what would become of the lovely house. Knowing Reginald, he likely had arranged for the proceeds from its sale to benefit any number of charities. Smiling sadly to herself, Genevieve made an internal vow to do her best to preserve his memory with her written remembrance.
The heavy front door creaked open, startling her out of her memories. Three police officers made their way out of the house and down the steps, the last one pausing as he passed her, his gaze briefly but appreciatively traveling down her figure. Genevieve felt her shoulders immediately begin to tense again.
He tipped his hat. “You have business at the house, miss?”
“Yes,” she responded icily, tipping her chin up. “I’m a family friend, expected by Mrs. Dolan.” What she said wasn’t technically a lie, even though it wasn’t the full truth—Arthur had cabled a message over that she would be arriving this afternoon. There was no reason for the police to know she was also a journalist.
But why were the police here at all? Reginald’s death had been natural.
Or so she’d been told.
“Is aught amiss?” She dropped her haughty demeanor, exchanging it for a furrowed brow and a look of helpless concern. Better to catch flies with honey. She blinked her eyes a few times for good measure. “My father was a dear friend of Reginald’s,” she added, deliberately using Mr. Cotswold’s Christian name, in essence reminding the officer that her family, being on such intimate terms with the Cotswolds, was also high society. Like the eye blinking, such tactics were unpleasant but sometimes useful.
“I don’t like to say too much, miss, but seeing as you’re a friend of the family …” The officer hesitated, glancing down at his companions, now impatiently waiting at the bottom of the stairs and stamping their feet in the cold. “Perhaps you can help Mrs. Dolan,” he continued, smoothing his elaborate moustache. “She seems to be having a hard time coping with Mr. Cotswold’s passing. She was in hysterics just now, insisting we treat the man’s death as murder.”
Something bright and unpleasant unfurled in Genevieve’s stomach, and she did not have to feign an expression of horror.
“Whyever would she think such a terrible thing?” she asked.
“Apparently a bauble has gone missing,” the officer confided, leaning a bit closer. Genevieve placed a hand lightly on his forearm, pressing her advantage.
“Not Robin Hood?” she gasped, rather impressed at her own performance. Perhaps journalism was the wrong calling; she would have excelled on the stage.
The officer puffed out his chest a bit and patted her gloved hand. “Not likely, miss. Robin Hood isn’t a killer, far as we know. Meaning no disrespect, but with the piles of knickknacks in that house, Mrs. Dolan likely misplaced one in her grief. It’ll turn up.”
Genevieve allowed herself a few more eye blinks. “I’m sure you’re right, Officer …?” She paused and gazed at him inquiringly.
“Officer Jackson, miss.” He smoothed his hands down the front of his uniform jacket and somehow managed to expand his chest a degree more.
“Officer Jackson, then. Thank you for letting me know. And thank you for being so helpful. I would have been quite alarmed to hear such an assertion from Mrs. Dolan, but now I feel most reassured.”
A satisfied gleam lit Officer Jackson’s eye, and he touched the brim of his cap as he moved to join his companions. Genevieve offered a smile, but it was immediately erased as the officer’s eyes dropped to her bosom with a small leer as he passed. She watched his retreating back incredulously, fighting the urge to cover her chest with her arms, which was ridiculous, seeing as she was encased in a snug velvet jacket from chin to midthigh. Her own gaze dropped to her bosom doubtfully as the officers rounded the corner and she caught the sound of their retreating laughter.
Perhaps the jacket was too snug? It was quite new, the color and texture of tilled soil, trimmed with a bit of black rabbit’s fur. She was fond of it.
Stop it, she scolded her own fretting mind as she rang the bell. It was a lovely jacket, and she wasn’t about to let her pleasure in it be ruined by a rude man with ridiculous moustaches who happened to be a police officer.
A young maid with wide eyes and a black armband on her gray dress opened the door. She took Genevieve’s hat, gloves, and jacket, then gestured toward the front drawing room. “Mrs. Dolan is in here, miss.”
“Oh! Miss Stewart.” The plump, gray-haired housekeeper bustled over to her, her black bombazine skirts rustling, and pulled her into an embrace.
